


The Only Child

by bunnyangel



Series: In This Reality [5]
Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Episode: s04e04 9-1-1 What's Your Grievance?, The Betting Pool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:16:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29722665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnyangel/pseuds/bunnyangel
Summary: In this reality, Maddieactuallysays: "That's Daniel. He died. He's your dad. Your real dad."Written for The [Buckley Family Secret] Betting PoolTM, in which losing wagers had to write an AU on whatever they bet.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley & Evan "Buck" Buckley's Parents, Evan "Buck" Buckley & Maddie Buckley, Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), The Buckley Family
Series: In This Reality [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2146413
Comments: 5
Kudos: 256
Collections: 9-1-1 Tales





	The Only Child

**Author's Note:**

> As always, [Marcia Elena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena) is the _best_. Thanks always for looking over my junk and encouraging me.

"Why didn't you tell me?!" He stops in front of them, hands outstretched in what's likely useless entreaty. The innocent, confused looks only incense him more. They're always baffled when he's upset, like there couldn't _possibly_ be a reason, and they couldn't understand _why_. It's a bitter truth he's always held growing up--they'd _never_ had.

But even now, that small, child-like part of him is trying to mitigate this. It's telling him that this is a bad strategy, that they'll only clam up, vulnerable underbellies hidden when they're feeling defensive, and the spines that come out _will_ hurt. But he's beyond helping it. He _can't_ help it--doesn't want to, anymore.

"Why didn't you tell me about--about Daniel?! About my _dad_?!" Every time he says it out loud, every time he even thinks it, another piece of him cracks. Another piece of him crumbles to dust and he's choking with it.

He stares at them, wills them to answer, to give an explanation that won't break the rest of him; won't completely crack open the lie that is his life. But as per usual, his parents--his _grandparents_ \--aren't even looking at him because they're staring at Maddie.

The golden child.

The _only_ child.

A scream is building in his throat. A scream is climbing, crawling, clawing from the depths of his despair and his jaw is aching with the force necessary to contain it. It comes out anyway, in laughter, disbelieving and disdainful and a bit broken. He turns away, covering his mouth before any more can come out. He breathes through cold, shaking fingers and waits.

The silence is chock-full of betrayal, all around.

The silence stretches.

He breathes and he waits. He _should_ wait, but he's _done_ waiting. He's been waiting his whole life. And for what? For fucking what. He whirls back to them.

"Well? Don't you have _anything_ to say to me?!"

As expected, his pa--grandparents' faces are barely guilty before they're angry. Their eyes slide right past him, as ever always, as even now.

"Maddie! What were you thinking?!"

"We talked about this, Maddie! It is not your place!"

"Look at me!" He snarls, voice cracking. "Talk to _me_! _Not_ her!" He wants that look of betrayal off their faces because they have no right to feel it. " _Look_. at. me." There's pressure building behind his nose and tears in his eyes as he pleads for the millionth time in his life for them to _see_ him.

And finally, _finally_ they look.

Finally, where it doesn't matter anymore.

Margaret sighs. "Evan...you don't understand, sweetheart. You look _just_ like him. You're _just_ as reckless as him."

His teeth grind on the endearment, so infrequently used that it grates almost as much as her tone of voice--exasperated, pleading...and entirely unapologetic. He swipes at his face angrily. His tears aren't worth this. They--they aren't worth this, but he _can't stop_. That small child inside him, ever unloved, ever unwanted, is wailing; is _absolutely_ screaming and shouting, and it's not fair. It's not fair, and so he smothers that child. He kills it because life is not fair and it's obvious now, more than ever, that it's never going to get what it wants and it's time they both accept that.

"You're going down the exact same road he did."

He chuckles. It's bitter. Phillip Buckley, ladies and gentlemen--blunt words like physical blows against his already breaking heart. "And what the hell does that mean? No, you know what. That doesn't even matter. You still haven't answered. Why didn't you tell me? What was--what was so bad about it that you couldn't? That you _wouldn't_?"

His grandparents exchange long looks. His grandfather takes his grandmother's hand. Finally, there's a hint of apology on Margaret's face. It's almost immediately overshadowed by what is nearly three decades of grief. "We couldn't--we weren't going to go through _that_ again. We loved Daniel. So, _so_ much."

It's bitter. He's bitter. So, so bitter that's it's burnt in his throat and sour in his stomach and ash in his lungs.

Daniel Buckley, his dad, who was loved this much. Then and now. Evan Buckley, his son, who wasn't. Isn't. Won't be.

There isn't really more to say, after that.

Margaret is crying. Tears are pouring down her lined, ageless face. He feels nothing. He _feels_ nothing. He grinds a metaphorical heel down on the remnants of that child and sets his jaw.

"Who's my mom? Have you been keeping me from her?"

Margaret straightens, eyes flashing. "We don't talk about her in this house. That--that bitch _ruined_ Daniel's life. Ruined _our_ life."

"Mom!" Maddie censures sharply.

When nothing else is forthcoming, he turns. "Maddie?" The plea is dull, exhausted, like there's nothing she could possibly say that could overturn his worldview any further.

She bites her lip, gaze sliding away from his. "There were some...issues, with substance abuse, so we...fought for custody, after Daniel died."

"The _stupid bitch_ couldn't even keep herself _alive_ long enough!"

"Mom! Stop it!"

"Stop--" He takes a deep breath. Ash, everything's ash. "Stop calling her that." He trembles with the need to say more, to spew acid and poison and burn the rest of _everything_ here to the ground where his parents are buried.

He looks out the window, mouth twisting. "I have to go. I have a shift." It's a beautiful day today. The breeze is cool and the sun is bright and it's jarring that the world's not burning with him, because of course it wouldn't. Nothing and no one stops for little Evan Buckley.

Everything's shifted a few degrees into bullshit, but the fundamental things remain the same. His parents may not be his parents, but they don't care either way. His parents are his parents, but they hadn't cared enough to try.

He may only have an inkling of what kind of tragic people his birth parents are, but he's more than familiar with who exactly Phillip and Margaret Buckley are and what kind of exacting, _impossible_ standards they hold. He's had almost thirty years to learn it himself, after all, so he doesn't have to imagine what his parents might have felt--even if he questions why they chose the path they did.

None of it changes anything, and yet, it's changed everything.

He hadn't imagined the utter disdain or the veiled dislike or the callous disregard, growing up.

He's validated.

He hurts.

_Mom. Dad. It hurts._

He finds himself back at Maddie's some twenty hours later with a little more calm, a little more clarity. It probably helps that the elder Buckleys are nowhere to be found and that Maddie, at least, still looks properly apologetic and guilty and determined to answer his questions. It definitely helps that he spent some quality time with both Eddie and Christopher after his shift first. He wants to go back there, to the warmth and the affection and the _love_ and forget about this for at least another day, but he can't.

Addiction is both a mental and physical illness. He knows this. He's worked with this. He's attended seminars explicitly detailing the struggle for those that they meet on calls.

Shame sits heavy in his stomach, that his initial reaction is so unforgiving, so quick to judge. It's Phillip and Margaret Buckley, through and through. Half a lifetime of habits he'd thought, or hoped, he'd unlearned. Of two sets of parents, he can at least forgive one.

"Tell me."

He glances at the picture again, of the father he didn't know he had.

"They met in high school and just...never really went far from each other. I used to be jealous of her, actually. He was seven years older than me and the-the best brother I could ask for." Maddie tries to smile, fails. "He was just...the best," she continues thickly. "He was kind, just like you, but just as stubborn, too." A wet laugh. "Mom and dad weren't far off when they said you remind them of him. You're--you're _so much_ like him, Evan."

He stares at his hands, fingers interlaced and bloodless in front of him and listens to his sister--his _aunt_ \--describe a great man. His heart clenches with every descriptor that Maddie compares him to. When she switches to his mother, that familiar pressure builds behind his eyes. He sinks into the words and lets them wrap around him. It's a lovely, fairytale-like picture of spun-glass and frosted sugar and gold threads that ultimately, somehow, crumbled.

"I don't know where they--I don't know when they started, but they changed. I didn't recognize them anymore. I--they were still so in love. They loved each other, but they'd started to hate each other, too, I think. It was--it wasn't a good time for anyone involved."

Something slides into his vision. The box is gray, archival cardboard, document sized. The bottom left corner has his name written in sharpie.

"I made this for you," Maddie says, sniffling, "because I knew--well, I don't know what I thought, when I started putting it together. Just in case."

He reaches out as though in a dream and lifts the lid slowly. He doesn't know what he's bracing for, but he's bracing all the same.

There are more pictures. This time of a grown man who looks astonishingly like him when he was younger. His arms are wrapped around an attractive blonde in about half of them. He's suddenly blinking away tears, because it hurts, because there's a hole in his chest that aches and aches and he doesn't know how this could possibly be real--they look so happy--they _were_ happy. He doesn't see any trace of addiction, of the destruction and dismantling of a tiny family.

His wipes at his eyes, but they keep leaking anyway.

He sets the photos aside gently, takes a deep, shaking breath, and reaches back in.

There are copies of official documents--a birth certificate. _His_ birth certificate, and not the one that he's familiar with. Court documents. A fifty-four page custody battle and then an adoption.

A six page police report.

Death certificates.

Coroner's reports.

"I was going to tell you, I _swear_. I started this as soon as--mom and dad and...well, you moved my timeline up. I wasn't--I wasn't prepared." Maddie's crying softly.

He looks up at her; stares at that pleading face that he's loved for all of his life and he wants to laugh. It's bitter, because he doesn't get a lovingly labeled, carefully packed wooden baby box. He gets what's essentially a death box. A remainder. A reminder that he's...not. Maddie is the hopeful future and Buck is the buried past.

And Maddie, of all people, is the one twisting this knife.

"I love you, Buck. Whether you're my brother or my nephew. I've always loved you."

That huge part of him that loves her wants to reassure her, to forgive her, to do anything in his power to ease her tears, but he's not sure if that'd be lying or not. There have been enough lies, lately.

He looks back down, keeps sifting through the fragments of his past.

"What's this?" He holds up a tiny thumb drive.

It takes her a minute to clear her throat enough to speak. When she does, he wishes she hadn't.

"It's a recording. Of a 9-1-1 call."

He can't explain the unease starting to churn in his gut, and the words are slow as he forces them out.

"Why is it in here?"

He flips the thumb drive in his hand. It's been three hours and he's still sitting in the dark, and he just keeps thinking about Maddie's face.

" _I don't want you to listen to it_ ," she had said, " _but...but I know, if it were me..._ "

" _If it were you?_ "

" _I would._ "

He's not dumb. He can do the math. He knows what's on it even if Maddie hadn't explicitly said.

He just doesn't know if he wants this memory, now that it's at his fingertips; knows that it will leave him bleeding.

" _You were so quiet, afterwards. You didn't speak for nearly a year, and when you did, it was just screaming. Then you just...stopped, one day--started talking like normal and it was like you didn't remember either of them. Your behavior changed. You were still sweet, but as you grew older...you grew reckless._ "

He plugs the thumb drive in. His laptop screen lights up. He doesn't hesitate to play it.

> _"9-1-1, where's your emergency?"_
> 
> _"Um...hello. I need help. My mom...my mom isn't..."_

A hiccuped sob. His heart clenches. He sounds unbearably young.

> _"Is your mommy okay?"_
> 
> _"She...she's been passed out for--for a long time. I don't...I don't think she's...I think she's dead."_
> 
> _"What do you mean?"_
> 
> _"I don't know."_
> 
> _"Okay, that's okay, and how old are you?"_
> 
> _"I'm...I'm four."_
> 
> _"Okay, honey, and what's your name?"_
> 
> _"Evan."_
> 
> _"Okay, Evan. What about your dad? Is your dad there? Are there any other adults living with you?"_
> 
> _"No...no, he died."_
> 
> _"Is anyone else living with you?"_
> 
> _"N-no."_
> 
> _"Do you know what street your house is on? Can you tell me the numbers that are on your house?"_

It goes on for 15 minutes, ending in him opening the front door for EMTs. The dispatcher softballs him, doesn't ask him to check any vitals because she probably already knew; does her best just to divert attention.

It doesn't quite register, that this is him, trying to save his mom's life. His mom, who was apparently already dead for two days, judging by the coroner's report.

His mom, who had overdosed on a mix of cocaine and ecstasy and alcohol.

His mom, who hadn't lasted more than twenty-six days after the choice his dad made to get behind the wheel.

He covers his mouth, fingers digging roughly into his cheeks.

He doesn't remember at all. Not them. Not this.

The screen wavers and he blinks the tears away.

He inhales on a sob and chokes on it; tries desperately to remember everything good that Maddie said about them, but he can't. He can't.

It hurts.

He hurts.

He _hurts_.

He weeps in the dark; the ghost of a child with the ghosts of his parents.

_Mom. Dad. It hurts_.

Time slips, like the _drip drip_ of a faucet, only the faucet is him and he can't seem to slow it down or turn it off. Something's broken and everything's gushing and he doesn't know the first thing about how to repair it.

He's shocked out of it when rough, calloused hands touch him. He squints through clumped and sticky lashes before he's pulled forward and against a warm, hard body--one he recognizes.

"E-Eddie?"

His nose feels twice its size and his eyes are swollen nearly shut, but Eddie is here. Eddie is _here_ , somehow, and so everything is already a thousand times better. He hiccups against Eddie's neck, arms clumsily raising to return the embrace.

"I'm here." Eddie's voice is a low murmur through the fog of grief; a lighthouse in an unending storm. His hand rubs soothingly up and down Buck's back. "I've got you," he repeats like a mantra. Buck shudders as those words hit him again and again, reinforcing the battered remnants of his heart, brick by trembling brick. Fresh tears soak into Eddie's shirt where he buries his face.

It takes him a while to catch his breath, and even longer to force out a single word. "How?"

"Maddie called. Said you might need me."

Another strangled sob. Another inch of tension that leaves him practically limp against Eddie. Another bit of forgiveness in his heart.

"Thanks," he says, muffled as he is against warm skin. "Thank you for coming. For...for everything."

For being Eddie Diaz. For being Christopher Diaz’s dad. For caring. For warmth and light and life.

He doesn't say it aloud; isn't quite ready to with all his fresh wounds.

Eddie seems to hear it all anyway, because his hold tightens and his head dips down so that when he speaks, his mouth brushes at Buck's ear. "I'm here," Eddie says, low and fierce like a threat. Like a promise. Like forever. "I've got you."


End file.
